


full and sweet as honeydew

by asael



Series: lake song [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22161769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: Years after the war, Claude visits Dedue and they finally talk about someone they lost long ago.Written for Dimiclaude Week 2020, day 6, 'reunion'.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: lake song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659037
Comments: 31
Kudos: 231





	full and sweet as honeydew

Dedue had visited Claude in Almyra many times. Since the war, since Fódlan’s unification and the ascension of King Byleth, he’d come often - first of his own accord, and later as an emissary from the newly re-established land of Duscur.

Byleth ruled wisely, as Claude had known they would, and part of that involved restoring the land that had been taken from Dedue’s countrymen, encouraging peace and reconcilation between them and the people of Faerghus. It hadn’t been easy. Even Claude, a country away, knew of the skirmishes and hatreds that had arisen.

But it had been years since Duscur had been given back to its people, years since Dedue pledged his life to establishing bonds between Duscur and Fódlan, Duscur and Brigid, Duscur and Almyra. His countrymen were understandably wary of outsiders, but Dedue knew how to move among them, knew their customs and how to speak to them in a way that meant they would listen. He’d refused a leadership position but taken one as what would, in another country, be considered Minister of Foreign Affairs. 

It meant that, for all that he’d been instrumental in the renewal of Duscur, he rarely had time to spend at home. He traveled often, dealing with border disputes in Fódlan, treaties with Sreng, trade policies with Almyra.

It meant that the first time he’d visited Claude in Almyra, it had been with a treaty in hand, creating bonds between their countries that would not soon break. Claude had celebrated with a feast of entirely Duscur cuisine, setting off an interest in the country that fostered trade, travel, and a few quite excellent restaurants.

Dedue had not even looked surprised to see Claude on the Almyran throne. Maybe he’d guessed. Maybe he’d always known.

That had been some years ago, that first reunion, and they’d talked only of the future. Of Almyra and Duscur and what they could give each other, of the things that might be born between their two nations.

They did not speak of the war. They did not speak of the time before that. They did not speak of Gronder Field. It was as if both of them understood that no good could come of it. The one thing they had shared back then was gone, long since buried, and digging up the dead would do nothing but bring them both pain.

So they didn’t talk about it then, or the next time Dedue visited, or the time after that. Claude had the chance, finally, to get to know Dedue as his own person, the person he had grown into after tragedy, after war. And Dedue, he thought, was able to do the same with him. They had become something like friends, for all that there were topics they so carefully avoided.

But this was the first time Claude had visited Duscur. Dedue had asked him to come, a carefully worded letter requesting his presence at a celebration for the friendship between Duscur and Almyra, five years from the day they’d signed that first treaty. Seven years since Duscur was given back to its people.

He had to go. Of course he had to. Almyra could function for a week or two without him, and so he climbed aboard his wyvern, loaded a few more up with food and drink and gifts for his hosts, and set off. He went alone - Fódlan was at peace, as was Duscur, and sometimes Claude desperately needed time to himself. When those times came, there was nothing that felt better than a long flight with a warm welcome at the other end.

So he flew to Duscur, and his welcome was warm indeed.

Duscur had no real capital city, not yet. It was a small land, the population still slowly recovering, and was governed by a council of elders, one from each family group. Some of these groups were nomadic, some had settled in small towns, but while many families had reclaimed what had once been their land, the people of Duscur as a whole had chosen to build new towns, rather than rebuild the ones destroyed by Faerghus. 

Claude could not have said why they had decided that - bad memories, ghosts of the fallen, a chance to start anew? It didn’t matter. What it meant, in the end, was that no town was yet large enough to truly be considered a city, to be considered the center of the land. That might come in time, but for now the council met in a different place each time, for fairness’ sake, so no one would always have to be the one to travel far. When they met, wherever it was, a marketplace arose, visitors came, the town or meetingplace swelling in size as a sense of festivity came over it.

Though Claude knew all that secondhand, from the emissaries he had sent over the years, he’d never witnessed it himself. Now he did, and it was remarkable.

The town itself was a small collection of wooden structures in the midst of a sea of tents, some strikingly colorful and others smaller, plainer. True to the celebration he had been invited for, he caught sight of many Almyran patterns - traders or travellers or performers - and the sight of it filled him with a sense of satisfaction. Of course they would be here, at this celebration of the friendship between their lands, but it was more than that.

Now, if he went to Derdriu or Enbarr, or even Sreng or over the sea, Claude would be able to find his countrymen. He may still be looked at with suspicion, may still be less than welcome, but he wouldn’t be alone. The world was changing. Fódlan was changing, under Byleth’s hand. Duscur was proof of that.

He landed, welcomed by the council. Many of them were women, and Claude did not know enough of Duscur’s culture to know whether that was normal or whether that was a symptom of the long years of war, the loss of Duscur’s men in battle. He would ask Dedue perhaps, quietly, later. He treated them with the respect they deserved, the respect they had earned, and they treated him with the honor due him as the King of Almyra.

Then he smiled, and asked permission to enjoy the festivities, and the crowd of children and curious onlookers that came to recieve the treats he unloaded from his wyverns treated him as nothing more than a thrilling curiosity. And that, Claude liked quite a bit.

He was handing out a final box full of Almyran sweets when Dedue arrived. Claude held back a few, of course, and when the children and the onlookers had scattered, he approached Dedue with a smile, embraced him as a friend, and pressed them into his hands. Far more than he could eat himself, but though Dedue had never married, Claude knew he often visited Ashe in Fhirdiad, and the sweets would keep.

“It’s good to see you,” Dedue said, and Claude knew him well enough by now to know that there was something on his mind. It was in the furrows on his brow, in the way his eyes always looked thoughtful. But though Claude had grown no less curious with age, he had grown more careful about how he explored that curiosity. If it was something he needed to know, or if it was something Dedue wished to speak about, he would do it of his own accord eventually.

“It’s good to see you too,” Claude said, and smiled. “Have they put you on escort duty? I need someone to show me the festival.”

“I volunteered,” Dedue said, with that careful hint of a smile he sometimes wore. “I would be proud to show you my home.”

And he did an excellent job, in Claude’s opinion. Despite Dedue’s reserved nature, his pride in his people and his country shone through - as did his kindness. The festival lasted for five days, and nothing was expected of Claude but his presence and his generosity, so he used the time as he wished.

Dedue showed him the best food stalls, brought him to see Duscur’s dances and listen to its music. He was popular with the children, patiently playing their games and teaching Claude to as well, and they spent one wonderful afternoon doing nothing but that - Claude laughing as the children climbed on Dedue, treating him more like a plaything than anything else.

Claude had brought the gentlest of the wyverns in his stables, and he made them available for the revellers to greet, to touch, to feed - a few were even brave enough to ask to be taken up into the air, and Claude obliged, wheeling out over the rocky hills. In the evenings, the elders hosted him at dinner and they talked of the things Almyra and Duscur shared, the bonds between their lands.

The Almyrans there knew he was visiting, and some came to him with questions, or simply to steal a moment of his time. After all, it wasn’t every day they could speak with the king. Claude allowed it with a smile, giving them the attention they wished for, making no promises he could not fulfill.

He enjoyed himself, and he enjoyed Dedue’s company, though the furrow never quite left his friend’s brow. Claude waited patiently to see if he would be told where it had come from.

On the final night, he got what he was waiting for.

They had a final dinner with the elders, a final celebration, Duscur cuisine and good wine. Claude was careful not to drink too much, but he enjoyed himself anyway, he enjoyed every moment of it. He would be leaving in the morning with gifts to bring back to Almyra - food and handicrafts and skillfully-made weapons, alongside trinkets he’d won in the games and other more useless items. He wanted to enjoy his last night clear-headed.

Dedue walked with him back to his own tent, but halfway there, he lead Claude off the path. They left the tents, walked out under the open stars, where no one could see them. There was still revelry going on - dancing, drinking, loud laughter and shrieks of delight - but none of it seemed to reach them out here among the hills.

“I have been thinking often,” Dedue said, careful and measured, “about Dimitri.”

Claude went quiet then. His good mood shaded into something more somber. He hadn’t heard that name in so long, but often it had been a silent presence between them. He wasn’t sure what to say now that it had been spoken aloud at last.

“He was my dearest friend,” Dedue said. “I know that you cared for him as well.”

And that, really, was what they’d never spoken about. Those days before the war, before everything fell apart. Claude remembered it so vividly.

Dimitri, he thought, had been his first love.

They kept it quiet. It might have been a scandal, if known - it certainly would have been a source of gossip. Dimitri was meant to be king, and Claude had goals of his own, and a future between them - well, even then Claude knew it wasn’t possible, but he was young, he was foolish, he believed there might be a way.

And for awhile it had been so, so good.

They’d stolen bits of privacy, exchanged kisses. Dimitri had come to Claude’s room at night and they’d shared soft conversations, sometimes tea, sometimes careful caresses. Dimitri was unfailingly careful, polite, never pushing too far or demanding too much. Claude was the one who asked for more, who coaxed Dimitri into his bed, who pretended he knew what he was doing even though he had no idea.

Dimitri had been so sweet, the first time. They’d fumbled through it, and it had been embarrassing and exciting and perfect, and then Dimitri had brought him flowers the next day, so sincere it had hurt Claude’s heart a little. He’d laughed at him, teased him because he hadn’t known how else to deal with that feeling, but he’d taken the flowers, and he’d kissed Dimitri, and Dimitri had smiled at him.

It had been _so_ good.

Claude had never felt like that, like someone could want him, like someone like _Dimitri_ could want him. 

His heart hurt now, thinking of that boy whose most painful vision of the future involved a Dimitri who could not be with him because of politics, because of who they were. Who had known it would end, one day, but had not known _how_ it would end.

And now Dimitri had been dead eight long years, and it had been thirteen years since the last time Claude kissed him. Before it all went bad. Before Edelgard’s betrayal.

The last time he’d seen Dimitri, the boy he’d once cared for - loved - had turned into a man who barely seemed to recognize him.

“I did care for him,” Claude said, quiet and honest. He smiled, despite the melancholy he felt. “We tried to keep it quiet, but I wondered if you might have noticed. Even back then - you were so observant when it came to him.”

For a moment, there was a hint of a smile on Dedue’s face, and then it was gone. “You were careful. I may have been the only one who knew.” He was silent for a long moment. They both looked at the stars, bright and clear above them. “You made him happy.”

Claude closed his eyes, remembering the war now, those awful days. “I couldn’t help him.”

“None of us could,” Dedue said. He stopped then, turned to look at Claude. “Do you still care for him?”

Claude wanted to laugh. So much had changed, _he_ had changed, the world had changed. Those days seemed so long ago, so rose-colored and perfect.

His childhood was painful, reminding him over and over again he didn’t belong. As he grew, that didn’t change, even when he went to Fódlan. But Dimitri never made him feel that way. Despite the pain, despite the tragedy, when he thought of those days he could only be grateful. He’d had lovers since, of course, though nothing permanent - Claude held his heart close, because of who he was and because he was a king. 

Dimitri hadn’t been permanent either. Nothing ever was.

“I do,” he said, exhaling, allowing himself to be honest. It felt as if they were in a world of their own, as if he could say anything. Dedue, he knew, could be trusted.

And what did it matter, if he admitted that some part of himself still held affection for a man - a boy - long since dead? Who would it hurt, what difference did it make? It wasn’t as if he was still pining over Dimitri. It was happy memories and piercing sadness, the loss of someone who meant something to him, but a loss that he could not have prevented.

He’d never made friends with Dedue at Garreg Mach - Dedue had never seemed amenable to it. They’d built a friendship years later, around things that had nothing to do with their time at school, nothing to do with the boy Dedue had followed, the boy Claude had loved. They’d built it around the shared experience of being an outcast, around love for their homes and their people, a desire to help each other make something that could truly last.

He knew Dedue far better now than he could ever have known him when Dimitri was alive, but even so, Dimitri had always been a silent presence. A ghost, following at their heels, whose name was never spoken.

But now it had been, and Claude was too curious, too perceptive to not realize that it meant something.

“Why now?” he said, a casual question, and Dedue sighed as if he’d been waiting for it. As if he’d known Claude would ask it, as if he was making a decision.

“Let me show you something,” he said.

He lead Claude through the hills to a small house, set off from the village some distance. Though it was dark, Claude could see a garden around it, clustered close to the house. In daylight, he thought, it would be beautiful. Carefully tended and allowed to grow just a little wild, just enough that it didn’t necessarily need daily care. Perfect for a man who traveled often.

“I didn’t know this was your village,” Claude said, softly. 

“It is not,” Dedue said. “As I have no family left, the people here allow me to live with them. But I prefer some space to myself.”

As Claude had learned very quickly upon his arrival, not all people of Duscur were as reserved and cautious as Dedue. He’d probably always been like that, a quiet child, and the Tragedy and his venturing into the land of people who hated him had only brought that part of his personality to the surface and kept it there. It was the inverse of Claude, who had smiled brightly and acted carefree, played up his untrustworthiness because he knew everyone would always see him like that anyway.

But many of the folk here were cheerful, outgoing. Still cautious - Claude always saw some caution in their eyes when talking to outsiders, and he thought they had earned that - but friendly. Dedue, for all that he was a kind man, was a _friendly_ person when you got to know him, would surely not have wanted to share that part of himself all the time.

So it made sense that he was part of the village, yet not part of it. It gave him privacy, space of his own, and with his near-constant travels it all probably worked out well enough.

He followed Dedue through the small garden and into the house. It was comfortable, cozy, enough for one person and no more. A small sitting room, a kitchen, two doorways into other rooms, both closed. Dedue lit the fire for them, and then a few candles, filling the room with light.

Very distantly, in the quiet of the house, Claude could hear the revelry from the village. They would go late into the night, he was sure, but here it was peaceful.

Still he knew there was something Dedue was holding back. It was in his posture, his eyes, his face. Claude could read it in the way he would glance at Claude, then away.

“This is really nice,” Claude said. “Thank you for bringing me here. But this isn’t what you wanted to show me, is it?”

Dedue was silent again, and then his shoulders dropped, and he sighed. “It isn’t.”

Claude waited, striving for patience. He was deeply curious now, but he could see that it had taken some time and effort for Dedue to come to this decision, to decide to tell him - show him - whatever it was.

“One of my countrymen, a hunter, found something in the mountains and brought it to me,” Dedue said. He stood in front of the fire, turned to face Claude. “I will… show you.”

He walked to one of the doors set in the wall, and Claude followed. He could not imagine what it was, except - 

Dedue’s careful mention of Dimitri earlier, finally broaching the subject they had so carefully avoided. This must, Claude thought, have something to do with that. A memento, a long-ago treasure, something lost and found that brought up old memories. Areadbhar?

Then Dedue opened the door, careful and quiet, and the firelight spilled into the other room - a bedroom. And Claude realized how wrong he was.

It wasn’t a memento. It wasn’t a relic.

It was Dimitri.

It could not be, Claude thought. Dimitri had died long ago. The dim light in the bedroom was playing tricks on his eyes, the man in there only resembled Dimitri in a few places -

But Claude stepped forward, and he looked closer, and his doubts began to fade.

The man on the bed was asleep, or at least his eyes were closed. His _eye_ , because one had been replaced with an ugly mass of scar tissue, and Claude remembered so clearly seeing that eyepatch on Dimitri’s face, wondering what had been done to him.

This man was older, but they all were. His blond hair was long and tangled, and though it was impossible to be sure in the firelight, Claude thought he saw gray streaks here and there. He was tall, as Dimitri had been, but dangerously thin. That was only clear because of the bones in his face, standing out starkly - the rest of him was covered in rough cloth, swathed in the kind of thing the poorest peasants wore.

But it was Dimitri. He was older, ravaged, but there was enough of him left that Claude could recognize him, could see the boy he’d once known so well. Cared for so much.

“How?” he said, the barest whisper.

“I do not know,” said Dedue, his voice equally quiet. “I saw him fall at Gronder Field. I did not think there was any way for a person to survive that. But I couldn’t retrieve his body. I went back later, to try to bury him, but the battlefield was too chaotic for me to find where he had fallen. Even so, I did not believe for a moment that he could be alive.”

Claude hadn’t, either. No one had. Dimitri’s name had been among the dead for years, he had been mourned, a statue had been erected for him in Fhirdiad. Many of the people, Claude believed, the ones who had survived the war, occasionally left flowers at it.

“He is not well,” Dedue said.

“He wasn’t well back then, either,” Claude said, remembering Dimitri, remembering the rage and madness in his eyes. 

Dedue nodded, solemn. “He does not believe that I am real. He raves, he believes that I am a ghost - or, sometimes, he believes that he is the ghost. His crest makes him strong still, even though his body is weak. He can barely support himself, but if rage fills him, he can destroy anything close to him.”

Something twisted in Claude’s chest. To think Dimitri, who had been through so much, had survived only to fall further into madness. Only to find more misery.

He’d loved this man, once.

“The others. Do they know?” Most of them survived the war. Claude had no reason to hurt any of them, and Edelgard was occupied with him. He doesn’t keep up with them, really, but he knows that Sylvain rules House Gautier now, that Felix is a mercenary somewhere, that Ingrid is a knight in the king’s service.

“No,” Dedue said. He looked at Claude. “If I told them…”

He left the thought unfinished. Claude could fill in the rest himself.

If he told Dimitri’s friends, they would be overjoyed. They would bring him to Fhirdiad, the nobles and people of Faerghus would delight in the recovery of their prince, their king. Byleth’s rule would be destabilized - not all the nobles of Faerghus wanted unification, but with their ruling family dead, they’d accepted it. Dimitri alive would be a standard to rally behind. Even those with the best of intentions would use him for their own goals, their own desires.

And one look at Dimitri made it clear to Claude that he was in no state for that.

He barely looked alive. Barely looked human.

“He might never recover,” Dedue said. “I cannot allow him to be used for political gain. Half the time, he does not even know the war is over.”

Dimitri, Dedue’s dearest friend. The prince Claude had loved. Now destroyed.

It was heartbreakingly unfair.

“I thought,” Dedue paused, looked at Claude, continued. “Perhaps you could take him to Almyra.”

At first, Claude was surprised. But it only took a moment for him to realize the path Dedue’s thoughts were following.

“We are too close to Faerghus here,” Dedue said. “Someone might recognize him. If it is possible to recover, he needs to do it in a place where he can be anonymous, with someone who can be trusted.”

Implicit there was that _Claude_ could be trusted, and even now Claude never knew how to feel about that. He'd spent so long being the outsider, with everyone automatically feeling suspicious of him. Trust was a difficult thing, but -

But hadn’t it always been the same for Dedue? No one had ever trusted either of them.

Dedue trusted him.

He thought it over. Almyra had changed in the past few years, too. Dimitri’s pale skin and blond hair would mark him as someone from Fódlan, but there were enough travelers from Fódlan now that it wouldn’t be too strange. He wouldn’t blend in, but it was unlikely he’d be well enough to walk the streets anytime soon anyway.

It made sense.

“Will he go with me?” Claude asked, looking up at Dedue.

Dedue shrugged. “We can drug him if necessary,” he said, somewhat ruthlessly. “He may not recognize you.”

Claude realized then that Dimitri’s eye was open, glittering blue. He was watching them, and Claude thought he could see _something_ in that eye, though perhaps not sanity.

He stepped into the room. Dedue let him.

“Dimitri,” he said, and to his embarrassment his voice broke. He took a breath, steadied himself, took a step closer. “Hey. It’s been awhile.”

Dimitri stared at him for a long time, the stare of an animal, the stare of something dangerous. Then he spoke, and his voice was cracked and rough.

“Claude,” he said.

For the first time in a very long time, Claude felt the pricking of tears.

He spent the night in Dedue’s house, in the same room as Dimitri, talking to him. He thought Dimitri only comprehended a small part of what he said, but he talked anyway, getting Dimitri used to his voice, his presence. Dimitri watched him, spoke almost nothing, barely moved.

And while Claude would rather Dimitri chose of his own accord, it was clear he was in no state to do so. The next morning, Dedue brought breakfast, bread which Dimitri ate in quick tearing bites and eggs scrambled with a powder Claude had carried in his belongings. It put Dimitri in a deep sleep.

Claude made his farewells to the elders, to the village. He smiled and laughed and gave compliments, and when he and his wyverns rose into the air, one carried on its back a cloaked figure, tied to the saddle, barely noticeable amongst the many gifts Claude was bringing home.

They flew to Almyra, Claude and the broken king, and Claude tried not to think about whether Dimitri would ever be whole again.

It would have to be enough that he was alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Three things:
> 
> 1) If I'd known this was going to be posted on Dedue Week I would have reworked the whole thing to center him more. MISSED OPPORTUNITIES. SOMEDAY. SORRY DEDUE.
> 
> 2) Title from [Lake Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cErckfwG_8), the quintessential 'I loved you when we were kids and it didn't work out but I've never forgotten you' song.
> 
> 3) If I write a followup for any fic from this week, it'll be this one. But no promises.


End file.
